


It's a Moment Sublime

by grandilloquism



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mind Sex, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandilloquism/pseuds/grandilloquism
Summary: It was the fact that Aziraphale, like the humans he had for so long lived amongst, was not immune to that specialty of his so-called Adversary: the temptation towards sure Knowledge.





	It's a Moment Sublime

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Finn Andrews song One Piece at a Time

Aziraphale had always liked Crowley's long hair, not that he'd ever dare say it, of course. No, he'd never have heard the end of it, and anyway, it wasn't the sort of thing one _said_ , was it? Not if one were an angel and the object of such a compliment was already a vain and prideful demon. Better to leave it be, and admire from afar.

Not _too_ afar, mind you. Aziraphale's preferred admiring distance was about the space left between oneself and one's dining partner, provided those parties were on friendly terms.

And it wasn't just the lovely saffron color of it, or the soft way it curled or caught the candlelight, seeming to glow from within, or even the scent of it, which Aziraphale was on occasion lucky enough to catch, the smell of juniper, and underneath it, ashes. It was all of these things, and it was the fact that Aziraphale, like the humans he had for so long lived amongst, was not immune to that specialty of his so-called Adversary: the temptation towards sure Knowledge.

He wanted to know, he burned with it, at times, with the want, the desire. He hadn't been made for such things, or so he'd thought. But who could say what he had or hadn't been made for, these days? Well, One could, but She had remained rather mum. And that left it up to Aziraphale.

It was a stormy day in London, several months after Aziraphale had held hands with the Antichrist and averted the end of the world. He was pulling the shades down firmly over the shop windows, lest any passer-by get the wrong idea, when the door blew open. It let in a great gust of wind and rain, and behind that was Crowley, dressed as was his wont, but with his hair falling loosely past his shoulders.

"Hello, angel," he said, the door banging closed behind him, and pushed his way into the shop. There were several bags dangling from each hand, and a white cake box tucked in the crook of an elbow, and he was distributing these about the open surfaces of the shop when Aziraphale walked up behind him.

"My dear," he said, and brushed his hand through the bottom third of Crowley's hair. It was heavy, and soft, and the curls gave easily to his fingers. It was so nice he did it again, and then a third time, before he recognized the stiffness in Crowley's shoulders.

"Oh!" he said, jerking his hand back. "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, Crowley. I don't know what came over me."

He was standing very close, or he mightn't have noticed it: the widening of Crowley's eyes, just visible behind his spectacles, and the expression that passed through them.

It begged belief that Aziraphale had known Crowley for so many millennia without recognizing that the feelings they harboured were mutual. But there had always been sides to worry about, and- and the simple fact that Aziraphale was afraid. For reasons mundane and divine, he had always let his fear rule his passions. It was the fear he saw reflected in Crowley's eyes.

Crowley waved a hand, paper bag still hooked in his fingers, "Don't, er, don't worry about it, angel. Chalk it up to my tempting nature." A smile slid across his face, slightly rigid, and he made a flourishing gesture towards the desktop, where he had set the cake. "Look-- _mpff_."

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss. He had kissed others, before. He didn't lack for experience, or technique, but for such a simple press of lips it left him wholly undone. It was the breaking down of one last barrier, the out and out crossing of a side. Not just a kiss, but a declaration. After a long moment, they parted.

"Your hair," Aziraphale said, stroking it again, root to curling ends. "It's lovely, I," he cleared his throat. "I've always thought," he paused again, before rallying, "it was beautiful. That you're," he trailed his fingers down Crowley's cheek, "very beautiful."

The bag dropped from Crowley's fingers and his eyebrows exerted themselves in a way that was difficult to interpret. "Now?" he asked. He removed his glasses, tucking them away, to reveal an expression of such open wanting that it drove the breath from Aziraphale's lungs. "We're-- are we--we're doing this _now_?"

Aziraphale spread his hands. "My schedule's open, if you had a better time in mind." He smiled at his own joke, a bit giddy.

"Angel," Crowley said, rather like a curse, and then Aziraphale was reacquainted with his lips, and, this time, his teeth, and his tongue.

Crowley's kisses were frenetic, and seemed expressly designed to send Aziraphale's stomach into flutters, to weaken his knees, to make his fingers claw into Crowley's back. Aziraphale returned them, desperate, and when Crowley slipped from his lips down his jaw to his neck Aziraphale's hands moved up to sink into his hair, clutching and pulling.

Crowley moaned, pressing his hips into Aziraphale. The sound stirred something in him, and he sent a spark of power through his fingers and directly into Crowley's nerves. The insistent pressing became more of an uncontrolled bucking, and he ceased his efforts to pant hotly into Aziraphale's throat.

" _Angel_ ," he groaned, and Aziraphale liked the sound of it so much he did it again. Playing energy down all the delicate little nerve endings of Crowley's corporeal form.

The demon's knees gave out, which was, Aziraphale thought, rather their cue to take this someplace other than the front room of his still ostensibly open shop.

At a gesture the door locked, and the sign flicked to _closed_ . Crowley got the idea with very little prompting, and though it did make it difficult to lead them into the backroom with Crowley wrapped around him from behind, his hands on Aziraphale's hips and his teeth scraping at the nape of his neck, it wasn't _impossible_.

They settled on the sofa, Aziraphale sitting with Crowley on his lap, legs straddling him and his hands on his shoulders. The look Crowley was giving him lit him up from the inside out.

"You're so beautiful," Aziraphale told him, stroking over his cheekbone, down his nose and across his lips. Crowley mouthed at his fingertips, teeth biting gently, then sucked on them.

Aziraphale felt warm all over, his wings moving erratically in the quantum space they were stored away in. He sent a bit more of that energy through his fingers, and he could feel Crowley shudder against him. "Beautiful," he whispered between them. "Darling, you're perfect."

Crowley bit his fingers and Aziraphale felt the jolt of some of that power returning to him. It shivered along his body, a delicious warmth that unspooled slowly across him, pooling in his stomach and sending curious fingers up his spine.

His human body felt ill-equipped to take it, stretching and moving without any input from him. The more it built the more of it he sent back into Crowley, cupping his head with his free hand, threading his fingers into his hair and using each point of contact to open the connection wider.

Crowley fell forward, his mouth releasing Aziraphale's fingers and his head landing roughly in the crook of his neck. He was whispering something, mainly sibilants, but Aziraphale could pick out his own name amongst the rest.

"Crowley," he said in turn. "My dear Crowley." He gasped as Crowley's hands found their way under his shirt, clutching at his back, reopening the circuit that ran between them.

He could feel Crowley approaching a peak and he pushed harder on their connection. "My love," he breathed into his ear. "My love, yes."

Crowley groaned loudly into his neck, and then there was a tidal wave crashing through both of them. The open connection pushed it back and forth, buoying them both along. Shivering, breathless, Aziraphale felt his wings expand into existence. They scraped against the wall, knocking down framed photographs and sending a watercolour flying.

It lasted an age, or it seemed to. Their essences mingling in the scant space between them, their breaths coming short and fast as their toes curled and their hands clutched at each other. Aziraphale's every fibre tingled with perfect repletion.

He laughed as he came down, smoothing his hands through Crowley's hair. "We've made a mess of things," he said gently into Crowley's temple, placing a soft kiss there for good measure. The simple fact that he could thrilled him.

Crowley took in a great shuddering breath then righted himself, looking about the room. " _You_ made a mess, you mean." His wings, Aziraphale noticed, had made an appearance as well, though they drooped contentedly down to the floor. He was smiling, on the verge of laughing, and it was beautiful to see.

"Yes, yes," he conceded, "all my fault." He couldn't help but smile.

"I brought lunch," Crowley said, soft and fond. "And cake."

"Oh!" Aziraphale remembered the cake box. "Yes! Oh, let's!"

"Alright," Crowley agreed. "Let's."

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is @ grandilloquism


End file.
